


No More Status Quo

by Face_of_Poe



Series: Not Subject to Congressional Approval [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Consent Issues, Dark!Washington, Double Anal Penetration, Extremely Dubious Consent, Light Bondage, M/M, Manipulation, Overstimulation, Painful Sex, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Spanking, Threesome - M/M/M, intern!Alexander
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:54:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23788897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Face_of_Poe/pseuds/Face_of_Poe
Summary: There’s a lingering pause.In it, Jefferson tries to decide if this is Washington’s offer of an out. If he’ll let Hamilton say no. Accept it, kick Jefferson out, carry on just the two of them.Perhaps Hamilton’s trying to work the same calculations at the same time.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/George Washington, Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson, Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson/George Washington
Series: Not Subject to Congressional Approval [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1704559
Comments: 12
Kudos: 119





	No More Status Quo

**Author's Note:**

> Did not use archive warnings, all stories exist on dubcon-noncon spectrum, proceed or exit accordingly. 
> 
> Fun twisty fact, this fic was actually written *first* and the rest of the story was pieced together backwards from here.  
> ("Story" lol)

Jefferson knows what he’ll find when he opens the door of the suite indicated by the simple note enclosed with the keycard, tucked inside a heavy embossed envelope delivered to his office by messenger at the end of the day.

He knows what he’ll find, but he doesn’t. Knows Washington’s gotten himself in deep with this one, a fixation, a preoccupation far greater than even that with the Tallmadge boy. Tallmadge had been demanding in his own way. A pretty, sassy thing to be tamed, but one who knew those unspoken rules, who _thrived_ on the taming, or the effort thereof. One who had no trouble maneuvering Washington exactly where he wanted him in turn.

Hamilton is more plaything than partner. A naïve creature lured into a snare of mounting depravity under the guise of Washington’s guidance. Only a year or two younger than Tallmadge had been at the start of _his_ internship, but Tallmadge had enjoyed a certain… _worldlier_ experience, experience hitherto lost to Hamilton amidst the constant preoccupation with and prioritization of his studies.

With Hamilton, there is no illusion of parity between them. Washington takes, and soothes, and settles, and then takes a little more. Rinse, repeat.

He won’t deny the boy’s mouth had been marvelous, the time Washington deigned to share; artless and inexperienced as it was.

He won’t deny he’s hoping for more out of tonight’s summons.

The room is as absurdly ostentatious as he’d expect from Washington’s own exacting tastes and standards. The fact that he must have dropped a grand, easy, on a few hours with a loudmouthed misfit half his age is just delicious context to the grandeur around him as he steps into the suite.

There’s a bar adjacent to the door; Jefferson finds a respectable whiskey and grabs a tumbler, pours himself a couple fingers while taking in his surroundings. The living space is empty, and the balcony visible out the sliding glass doors. A spiral stairway in the middle of the room leads up to the lofted bedroom, and he can hear the faint rumble of Washington’s deep voice as he settles himself into a comfortable armchair in front of the marble fireplace.

The sound of a hand cracking across bare flesh halts him for a just a moment as he raises the glass to his lips. A faint smile settles over his face, and he shakes his head and takes a sip.

On the next sharp sound, he can hear a muffled moan echoing behind it. More rumbled words from Washington, another crack, and then Jefferson tunes them out while he relaxes. Gives Washington a few minutes to set the tone, work the boy into a state where Jefferson’s entrance will cause as little disruption as possible.

It’s when he’s at the bar pouring a second drink that a sob carries down from the loft, and he smiles inwardly and grabs a second glass.

He knows what to expect when he reaches the bedroom, but he doesn’t. Still barks a sharp laugh at the sight before him, an expression that toes the edge of _bored_ on Washington’s face as he sits on the edge of the bed, still in his full suit except for the tie, which seems to be tied around Hamilton’s wrists.

Hamilton, who is still in the shirt and tie he’d been wearing while dashing about the Russell building all morning, but his pants have been dragged down to expose his ass as he lays there, face-down in the comforter, thrown across Washington’s lap like a disobedient child. For a brief moment, he twists his face in the direction of the new sound from the doorway, and Jefferson gets a glimpse of his wide, red-rimmed eyes, before Washington has a firm hand at his neck to twist his face back down.

“You’re usually more subtle, George,” Jefferson muses, amused, as he steps into the room and places the extra glass on the desk opposite the bed. “Is this punishment or simple recreation?”

“Alexander,” Washington tells him, resting his arm and rubbing his hand absently – possessively – over the red flesh of his ass, the tops of his thighs, “was given one, _simple_ task in preparation for this evening, and he failed even in that.”

As Washington must know, the boy _still_ can’t resist the urge to defend himself. He twists out of the blanket again and protests, “But _sir_ , I told you, Mister Arnold kept me busy all morning and then I got stuck running a tour, and I didn’t have time to run home and -”

It’s a gentle swat that time, by Jefferson’s estimation. Quieter than the ones that echoed down the stairs, and Hamilton closes his eyes and lets out a faint whimper that goes straight to Jefferson’s dick.

“And _what_ ,” he steps up to the bed and crouches down by Hamilton’s head, “was the boy meant to do?” He traces a long finger down the side of his face. Gets a bleary glare in return, and he grins sharply, drags his thumb across Hamilton’s pouty bottom lip and hopes for that mouth, and more.

“He was _meant_ to wear a plug this afternoon,” Washington explains, back to his soothing caresses over exposed flesh. “Retrieve it at lunch; be ready for me when we arrived here.”

Jefferson can see the glint of amusement in Washington’s eye; Hamilton cannot, and he wonders if the boy realizes just how much Washington expected – perhaps _hoped_ – he would fail in his task.

Though he does greatly enjoy the visual of Hamilton dashing about the office buildings and leading constituents on Capitol tours while trying to ignore the pressing stretch of what he’s _sure_ would have been far-too-large a device to even be practical for such a purpose.

Hamilton _hates_ being wrong, and Washington set him up for failure. Tallmadge would have understood that game and played it right back; Hamilton looks chagrined, lower lip sucked between his teeth and pink rising in his cheeks. “Tell me, Alexander,” Jefferson murmurs, inches from his face, “when were you last fucked?”

The pink deepens to a rosy red blush, and he instinctively tries to glance around to Washington before muttering, “Week ago.”

“No toys since? Not even fingers?”

He twists his face into the blanket, and then gasps and turns back when Washington squeezes a broad hand at the nape of his neck. “M’not allowed.”

Jefferson laughs at that and stands. Yes, Washington’s outdone himself with this one. He gestures at the boy’s ass, and asks, “May I?”

Hamilton squirms as Jefferson spreads his cheeks. Embarrassed under the scrutiny, the touch of an unexpected addition to the evening, and something dark in him delights at the self-consciousness of the usual spitfire of a boy.

“Hm.” He rubs a thumb over the tight hole, watches it twitch and tighten further. Presses the tip in, dry, and earns another of those delicious whimpers that make him want to bend the boy over the bar downstairs. “Yes, that’ll take some opening. How very inconvenient for you, George.”

“A pity, truly.” Hamilton lets out a muffled snort of laughter at Washington’s tone; Washington smacks him once more and then yanks loose the tie binding his wrists and squeezes one bony hip. “Up.”

He works his wrists in careful circles, restoring the circulation, and then pushes up, backs off of Washington’s lap in an awkward shuffle with his pants down around his thighs. His feet have barely touched the floor before Washington’s hands are at his hips, dragging him close and wasting no time in divesting him of his rumpled pants while Hamilton hastily toes off his shoes.

Jefferson comes up close behind him. Fiddles with Hamilton’s tie as he leans down to murmur hot in his ear. “I enjoyed your mouth last time, Alexander.”

When he doesn’t answer right away, Washington grips his chin and squeezes and orders, “Be _polite_ , Alexander.”

“Thank you, sir,” he gasps, and Jefferson works the knot in his tie loose. Pulls it up and over Hamilton’s head, and then reaches for the button at his collar.

“Do you think,” he whispers, “that George will let me touch you this time?” Hamilton trembles, and Washington wraps a hand around the boy’s half-hard cock. “Maybe even fuck you?”

Hamilton whips his head back and forth and manages to breathe out, “I don’t know, sir.”

“ _Ask_ him, then.”

He’s got his chest exposed now, drags his fingertips across the bared skin and presses a hand at the base of Hamilton’s throat just to feel it bob with the nervous swallow. “Sir,” he whispers. Jefferson resumes unbuttoning the last few buttons on his shirt. “Senator Jefferson wants to know if he can,” he gasps as Jefferson pinches both of his dark nipples between his fingers. “If he can fuck me.”

“Hm,” Washington muses, still stroking idly. “Not yet.” He draws Hamilton into a deep kiss, one hand curled around his jaw, fingers wrapping around the back of his head into his long hair. “You’re not ready for that, are you?”

“I won’t break.”

Washington’s smirk matches Jefferson’s own; Hamilton can see neither, his head thrown back and eyes closed as Washington mouths at his throat.

“I’m going to relax for a bit; have the drink Thomas so generously brought up.” He turns Hamilton around in his arms and slides the shirt free from his narrow shoulders, finally. “ _I_ get to fuck you first,” Washington whispers darkly into the boy’s ear. “But I’ll leave you in Thomas’s capable hands to get you ready; and if he does a good job, perhaps I’ll be amenable to sharing.”

“Okay,” Hamilton breathes, cheeks pink and pupils dilated.

Whatever the effect Washington has managed to cultivate over him, Jefferson thinks he could do anything to the boy right now.

Maybe he will.

He pulls Hamilton out from the space between Washington’s spread thighs and directs him back to the bed as Washington moves to the desk to sit and enjoy the show. “Lie down. Face down. Don’t move.” He complies with a last nervous glance over his shoulder at Washington, complies with a readiness that will never cease to amaze. This boy who thrives on contention, stripped and rendered docile by firm words, firm hands.

As he settles himself on the bed, ass-up as instructed, Jefferson peers into the bag sitting on the desk. Finds cuffs and a collar that aren’t of much interest to him; a plug that he considers a moment, before rejecting. But there’s a bottle of lotion, and a couple different types of lubricant. He grabs the thicker gel, pockets it with the lotion, and glances at Washington.

“Any special requests?” he asks sardonically.

Washington smiles, all dark amusement as he stares at the prone boy under heavy lids while he drinks his whiskey. “As I said, Thomas – he’s in your hands.”

The angry red flush is fading from Hamilton’s backside by the time Jefferson makes his way to the top of the bed, but there’s one spot at the juncture of his thigh that looks like it’ll bruise. He starts there with the lotion, giving Hamilton no warning before he’s spreading the stuff liberally across his buttocks, making him start with the sudden touch of _cold_.

“Tell me, Alexander,” he lets his hands drift further up, rubbing soothing arcs across his back, “where do your friends think you are, tonight?”

“Campus,” he admits. “The, ah… the library,” he mumbles, his hands folded together and pillowed under his head. “Study rooms, whatever.”

Somehow, he suspects that the notion of Hamilton locking himself away in a private study room on a Friday night is not a novel one in his college tenure to date. “George has been whisking you away from your studies each weekend for, what? Six weeks? And I’ll bet you’re _still_ the most insufferably smart of them all, aren’t you?”

“My GPA’s just fine,” Hamilton shrugs, and bites back a groan as Jefferson digs his fingertips into a knot in his neck. “S’how I get away with it.”

He can’t help but laugh, at that – Hamilton is getting away with _nothing_. And Washington gets away with _everything_ by acting and looking as though he had the right to be anywhere, do anything.

He walked a twenty-year-old intern, a young _man_ , straight into a luxury hotel in broad daylight, because it’s the hypocrites who _act_ ashamed, who hire their whores at seedy motels after nightfall, who catch people’s interest.

Another few minutes working Hamilton into a more relaxed state, the tension gone from his back and shoulders, he slides his hands back down to narrow hips, lower. Nudges his legs apart and presses behind his balls with a thumb and then drags it slowly back up. Finds his hole again and rubs it gently, and he doesn’t clench this time, just the barest of twitches as Jefferson presses the tip back in, somewhat easier with the remnants of the lotion.

Deeming them ready, Jefferson grips the boy’s hips and pulls him up. “On your knees. No, keep your chest down.” He reaches around and yanks a pillow down to slot under Hamilton’s chest. “Spread your knees further, c’mon, let George see you.”

From this angle, he can see the back of the boy’s neck redden, and can only imagine the face to match. “He’s seen me,” Hamilton grouses even as he maneuvers himself, puts himself on display while Jefferson trades the lotion for the lubricant.

“Oh, but never like this, my boy,” Washington says approvingly, and Jefferson glances over at where he’s watching, cool-as-you-please, nursing his whiskey. Eyes fixed on Hamilton’s ass. “You’ll behave for Thomas, won’t you?”

‘Yes, sir,” he mumbles, and Jefferson takes that as his cue to press his first, long, lubricated finger in deep as he can.

The noise that elicits is positively _exquisite_. A high, breathy exhale, somewhere between a moan and a gasp, and his forehead drops down to the comforter. Willing and submissive and pliant, and wholly at his mercy, at least as far as Washington will allow. “So,” he asks as he begins sliding his finger carefully back and then pressing it forward once more. “Were you a virgin before George got his hands on you?”

Hamilton squirms; discomfort at the question more than the intrusion, Jefferson knows, but he still seizes on the excuse to wrap his other arm around the boy’s hips and hold him firmly in place. “I wasn’t a virgin,” he sulks indignantly.

Jefferson rolls his eyes and presses his finger forward, deep and hard, and Hamilton jolts in his hold. “Had anyone ever shoved a cock up this tight ass of yours, Alexander, don’t be obtuse.”

Peeved silence answers the question for him. _Hardly shocking_. He uses his middle finger to collect some of the lubricant that trails slowly down towards his testicles and then presses it in alongside the first the next time he withdraws. Sinks them both in halfway before the boy’s gasp takes on an edge of pain or discomfort, and then pulls back.

He releases his hold around Hamilton long enough to squeeze some more of the thick lubricant on his fingers, and then plunges them both back in fast and deep. Earns another coveted whimper, and tsks softly under his breath. “No wonder George wanted you stretched before you got here, this will take forever.” A huffy breath is mostly muffled by the bedding and then fades into another moan as he twists his fingers, curls them, presses against the tight, warm walls of the boy’s ass. “I expect it took him all night to finally work his cock into you the first time, if this is how tight you are after just a week.”

Washington chuckles darkly. Jefferson glances back and sees he’s still sitting back leisurely in his seat, watching intently but with his body otherwise relaxed, unhurried. “You may come to find, Thomas, that your read on Alexander is somewhat off.” He cocks a brow, curious. “You get off on a bit of pain, don’t you, my boy?”

_Oh?_ Jefferson cocks a curious brow down at the prone young man under him. He hasn’t moved; hasn’t answered the question, rhetorical as it was, but his breathing is coming in shallower pants. For the first time that evening, Jefferson touches his dick, reaches around and grips him firmly, finds him hard and eager, feels the pre-come leaking from the head and threatening to drip onto the bed.

“ _Oh_ ,” he murmurs silkily. Removes his hand, ignores the plaintive whine at the lost contact. “Oh, we’re going to enjoy ourselves tonight, aren’t we, Alexander?”

He doesn’t even bother removing his fingers all the way. Just presses his ring finger along the edge of the boy’s stretched hole and pushes until it yields, until his ass may as well be pulling him in, greedy for more.

It _does_ hurt though, it must. The sound he makes that time is a sharp, shocked grunt, the movement closer to a drag than a slide until Jefferson adds yet more lubricant to the mess already there.

_Then –_ then, he takes his time. Presses forward by slow degrees, draws back. Skims the tips of his fingers over the spot where the boy’s prostate should be but exerts no more pressure, not enough stimulation to push him closer to the edge. Just enough to heighten the _want_ , to make him want to _chase_ it, anything to find relief. Listens to gasps alternate with broken moans and groans as he spreads his fingers apart far as he can.

In, and out. Slow, unyielding, _patient_. _Waiting_ for it. Watching the sweaty sheen on Hamilton’s neck as his body opens up for him more and more readily, until he’s pulling all three fingers all the way out and then plunging them back in without resistance.

Waits for it, until – “Please. _Please_ , just…”

Jefferson pets gently across Hamilton’s side. Down over the round of his ass, spread as he is on the bed, wonton and desperate. “Do you want _more_ , Alexander?”

“ _Please_ ,” he repeats, sounding near tears. “I’m ready. I’ve _been_ ready.”

“Hm. If you’re sure.” Jefferson slowly withdraws. Watches the boy relax during the momentary reprieve, already too exhausted to move his head up off the bed, clearly waiting for the familiar touch of Washington, for a hard cock to sink into his wet and waiting hole.

Jefferson carefully slathers more lubricant; spares a glance at Washington, almost an afterthought, and gets a shrug and a simple _carry-on_ gesture.

Without warning, he wraps his arm back around Hamilton’s hips and drags him in close, holds him firm, immobile.

Then he presses the tips of all four fingers of his other hand into the boy’s stretched ass.

Hamilton cries out. Shock, some pain at the unexpected stretch, and the sound morphs into a low, drawn-out sob as he presses forward, further, deeper.

Washington _finally_ moves; stands, and before Jefferson can pull his hand back and apologize for breaking his toy, Washington is circling the bed, shedding his jacket as he moves. “Flip him over,” he orders, brooking no argument, and _then_ Jefferson pulls out, the cry only gaining in pitch, and rolls Hamilton to his back practically effortlessly.

Washington leans over the side of the bed so he’s face-to-face with Hamilton’s tear-stained visage, and then lifts him easily to move him right by the edge. Threads a hand through mussed and sweaty hair, and captures the boy’s lips in a kiss that would be considered gentle, sweet, in some other reality. “You’re being so good, my boy,” he murmurs quietly, one hand cupping his face. “You’re beautiful like this. Coming apart under Thomas’s hands.”

Jefferson gets a discreet motion to continue, and he lines up his fingers again. Pushes in slower this time, the other hand pressing Hamilton’s thigh up out of his way. Relishes the sight of his chest heaving with unsteady breaths as he fights to relax into it.

“Good boy,” Washington breathes, and Hamilton closes his eyes and shudders. “Can you do it, my boy? Keep being good for Thomas? For me?”

There’s a pause – a brief one, but a slight hesitation before he’s nodding, before a barely audible gasp of “Yes, sir,” slips out.

Occupied as he is, watching all four fingers slowly disappearing, pressing closer and closer towards the last knuckles, the juncture of his thumb, he barely notices Washington freeing himself from his pants as he stands there by Hamilton’s head. “Good boy,” Washington repeats as lips wet with tears and saliva close over the head of his cock. 

He expects his colleague to put the boy through his paces, keep him overwhelmed and wrong-footed with a cock in his throat while Jefferson keeps forcing his hand deeper, twisting his fingers against the boy’s rim and stretching him harder, further. But Washington barely moves once he’s enveloped in Hamilton’s mouth; cups his face with one broad hand, thumb stroking along his tear-streaked cheek, and just holds him there.

Distracting him, grounding him, Jefferson realizes, as he sees the way Hamilton’s eyes alternately strain up towards Washington’s face and then drift closed, muscles in his face slackening as he focuses on the heavy length on his tongue. A twisted intimacy between them, given the presence of the third man in the room, the one forcing Hamilton’s body to open up further and further, just because he wants to.

Because he _can_.

Because Washington is _allowing it_ , and Hamilton is allowing Washington that power despite the trembling in the muscles in his thigh, where Jefferson has it pressed back to hold him open. Despite the tears still shining in his dark eyes every time they open, and he wonders how much is the pain, how much humiliation, and how much is from being simply, unbearably overwhelmed physically and emotionally.

He loses track, doesn’t know how much time he spends stretching the boy’s ass on the widest part of his hand. Twisting back and forth, curling his fingers and pressing against impossibly tight inner walls, wondering absently if the boy can take it at all, the final step. But eventually, as his breathing steadies, as his body more readily accepts the punishing slide of Jefferson’s hand, Washington takes his hand and reaches down to grab Hamilton’s other thigh. Draws it up towards his chest to match the one Jefferson props, leaving the boy impossibly open, displayed.

Vulnerable.

His other hand leaves the boy’s cheek and drifts slowly down his sweat-slick chest, his stomach. Reaches for his cock, half-hard amidst the barrage of pain and sensation, and rubs him gently. Lets his fingers drift down to carefully cup his balls, before dipping lower into the mess of lube around his stretched hole. Washington crooks the tip of a single finger, presses it in none-too-gently along Jefferson’s, and Hamilton moans around the length pressing further into his mouth.

Washington smiles, and withdraws. Keeps his hold on Hamilton’s leg, pinning it back, and returns his attention to his face.

Jefferson takes his cue and tucks his thumb into his palm. Lets go of Hamilton’s other leg so he can slather one last generous coating of the lubricant over his hand, over the boy’s ass, and then pushes it back out of the way and pushes forward without hesitation.

Hamilton chokes on Washington’s cock as the edge of his thumb catches and slips in, and Washington pulls away. Jefferson stops there to watch the boy watch _him_ , wide-eyed, sweating and crying, muscles trembling harder in his hold with exhaustion and, he suspects, more than a little unsuppressed effort to escape this utter depravity.

He pulls out and pushes back in once, twice, a third time, until the tip of his thumb slides in more readily, and then he presses insistently forward, feels tight heat press around his fingers, his knuckles, until Hamilton sobs as his rim strains around the heel of his hand.

Jefferson pulls back again; presses forward once more, harder, and tightens his hand painfully around Hamilton’s thigh when he jerks in his grip with a cry. “I can’t,” he sobs. “I can’t, I can’t.”

“Alexander.” His eyes fly up, red and wild, to Washington, and track him desperately as he sits on the edge of the bed. One hand still holding Hamilton by the thigh, seemingly effortlessly, but Jefferson is sure there’ll be bruises to match on either leg come the morning.

He doesn’t say anything else. Simply reaches down to coax Hamilton back to full hardness once more, and keeps stroking him this time. Hamilton’s shaky breaths grow deeper, and there’s a moment of stillness, caught between chasing the sensation of the hand pulling him higher and higher and escaping the hand forcing its way deeper and deeper.

Jefferson takes advantage of that moment, caught on the precipice, and pushes one last time until his hand is fully enveloped in the boy’s tight passage, his rim twitching and straining, fighting to close around his wrist.

Hamilton cries and thrashes, even as Washington, apparently uncaring of the noise the boy is making, strokes him faster and faster.

If there are any discernible words to be made out in the chaos of the boy’s cries, it is beyond Jefferson to decipher them. But he can feel the tortured stillness settle into his limbs; can feel the muscles pressing tight around his fingers tightening even further, and he curls his fingers in, dragging them relentlessly against the boy’s prostate, and then digs his knuckles into the same spot as he makes a fist at the same moment Hamilton howls and comes over his own belly, shaking and sobbing, face a mess of sweat and snot and tears.

Jefferson holds steady; Washington continues stroking until Hamilton goes nearly slack, save for hitched, shuddering breaths, and then he releases his grip and lets go of his leg, shifts around on the bed to lean in and kiss him slow and deep again, oblivious or uncaring to the mess that is the boy’s face. “So good for us, Alexander,” Washington murmurs, pushing damp hair back from his face. “So good for _me_.”

At that, Jefferson slowly, carefully, uncurls his fingers, and gets another weak cry in protest, over-stimulation now compounding the overwhelming sensations, the unyielding pressure and stretch. There’s no making this easy on him, but he knows it’s best done now while there’s still lubricant in abundance, and so he slowly, carefully, begins to withdraw his hand. 

Washington swallows most of the boy’s tortured cries as the heel of his palm stretches him to the widest point again, and then his fingers slip out with relative ease.

Jefferson releases his grasp on Hamilton’s leg at last; considers asking Washington for pictures later of the bruises sure to spring up where the red marks made by his fingers digging into soft flesh stand out sharply. But Washington’s already on the move again, standing up and ignoring the plaintive whine from Hamilton at the lost contact.

He picks Hamilton up again like he weighs nothing, one hand hooked under his knees and the other under his shoulders, and maneuvers him back towards the middle of the bed. Shoves his pants down just far enough to be out of his way, and then climbs onto the bed next to him, rolls Hamilton to his side and lifts his shaking leg up to drape it over his own, and presses forward, sinking deep into the boy in one hard thrust.

He stills, there. Waits for Hamilton’s trembling limbs to settle, waits as he starts to relax back into the familiar hold.

Jefferson imagines the overwrought muscles of Hamilton’s ass slowly fighting to tighten around the new intrusion, and he tears his gaze away from the semi-coherent boy, naked and bruised and pinned tight into Washington’s grip. The disparity in their ages, their stations, made stark by his colleague’s mostly clothed form. Hamilton rendered helpless by the power Washington wields over him with strong hands, with firm words.

Three steps towards the en suite, and a gentle whimper snaps his gaze back. He sees Washington rolling his hips slowly, leisurely; not so much chasing his own pleasure as rendering Hamilton unable to forget his presence in him, around him. “Not leaving already, are you, Thomas?”

He quirks a slow brow and glances down at his hands, tacky with drying lubricant. But he takes Washington’s meaning and resists the urge to take a few extra minutes in the bathroom to attend to the neglected stiffness in his own pants; settles for unfastening them to relieve some of the pressure as he listens to the panting exertions on the other side of the door, Hamilton’s shaky gasps and cries every time Washington ruts back into him, and much deeper than Jefferson’s hand had done.

When he walks back into the bedroom, Washington is still taking his time. Deep, slow thrusts, Hamilton’s back still pressed firmly to his chest, one arm wrapped tightly about his waist. His every move a reminder of the power he holds over this boy who has been caught up so far over his head, Jefferson can barely begin to fathom what will become of him come the end of his semester, his return to full-time college life, away from Washington’s heavy influence. 

And, strangely, the biggest display of his control – handing him over into another’s hands. “Alexander,” Washington murmurs in his ear when he sees Jefferson settle into the chair by the desk, dark eyes watching them intently. “I told Thomas I’d be willing to share if he did a good job readying you for me.” Hamilton lets out a low whimper and twists away to hide his red face, still shining with sweat and tears. “Did he do a good job?”

He punctuates the question with a hard thrust that drags a keening cry from the boy’s throat. “Yes, sir,” he mutters, and then lets out a breathy moan when Washington’s hand finds his half-hard cock again.

“Do you think Thomas deserves a reward for his… assistance?”

There’s a lingering pause.

In it, Jefferson tries to decide if this is Washington’s offer of an out. If he’ll let Hamilton say no. Accept it, kick Jefferson out, carry on just the two of them.

Perhaps Hamilton’s trying to work the same calculations at the same time.

He’ll never know though, because he finally says, “Yes, sir,” voice soft but steady, and there’s trepidation in his eyes when they shift around to meet Jefferson’s intent gaze, but the overwhelmed haze has faded and the edges of fear with it.

Washington scrapes teeth along Hamilton’s jaw, snapping his eyes away as he twists in the firm hold. “Then it would please me _greatly_ , my boy, to see you riding Thomas’s cock. Bouncing on it so pretty, like you do for me.” _Jesus Christ_. “Can you do that for me? For Thomas?”

He hasn’t come, far as Jefferson can tell. Maybe wants to make sure he’s the last touch the boy experiences, after everything in this twisted little game of theirs.

Hamilton pulls slowly out of his arms. Off of his cock, mostly suppressing the wince at soreness Jefferson can only begin to imagine, and neither of them have even gotten off yet.

He’s struck with a sudden need to see the boy trying to hide a limping gait as he dashes about the halls of Congress doing Washington’s bidding come Monday morning, and the picture makes him grin, wicked, and he rises from the chair and takes Hamilton’s arm as he climbs off the bed. Pulls him close and kisses him deep and demanding, hands squeeze his slim hips, pulling the cheeks of his ass apart, fingers dipping back into the mess he and Washington have left there already.

“An eager little slut, aren’t you?” he whispers hot in Hamilton’s ear, and the boy hides his face in his shirt. “If only Arnold had known, when he pulled your application, what lay beneath that obnoxiously perfect transcript. If only he knew what his boss was doing _now_ with the intern he treats like the office bitch.” A shuddering breath shakes the boy against him, and he lets him go long enough to shove his pants halfway down his thighs before sitting on the bed. “Come here,” he yanks him close and then turns him around. “Be a good little thing and climb into my lap, would you?”

He gets him by the hips and helps him with the awkward angle; Washington comes around to take up his abandoned seat at the desk and he rolls up his shirt sleeves, watching as Jefferson hooks Hamilton’s knees over his own thighs, spreading him wide and helpless once more, and then pulls him down swiftly on his straining and leaking erection, takes him all the way in one hard movement that makes Hamilton arch and groan and throw his head back against Jefferson’s shoulder.

Even after Washington… even after his own damn _fist_ … he’s still hot and tight, and Jefferson bites into the juncture of Hamilton’s neck and shoulder to muffle his own groan.

He sets a punishing pace. The power games are ultimately Washington’s concern, and he’s spent far too long now watching and listening to Hamilton fall apart to not simply do his part to shatter him completely in the quest for his own satisfaction. He has no leverage, the way he’s draped across Jefferson’s lap, and so Jefferson does the work for him, keeps his grip tight on Hamilton’s thighs and drags him up and down on his cock over and over again, savoring every little grunt as he bottoms out and every breathy moan as he lifts him straight back up again.

After a minute, Hamilton’s head is just bouncing against his shoulder, surrendered to his helpless state, to the relentless slide of the hard cock into his bruised ass. Jefferson’s hands are occupied, and Hamilton is too far gone to pay any mind to his own firming erection, and so it’s Washington who rises once more and drags cruelly soft fingertips along the boy’s leaking cock as it strains back up towards his belly and bounces on every thrust.

“Very pretty indeed,” Washington commends, eyes raking over Hamilton’s parted lips. The sheen of sweat on his chest. His fingers carefully trace down over his tightly drawn testicles, cupping them gently, and then skim back up to the tip of his flushed cock. “Thomas, if you’d lie back, please.”

His brows rise slowly, but he obliges. Desperately curious, and disbelieving that Washington would be so brazen as this. But as he continues thrusting up into the boy, legs still held wide and splayed, he feels the questing fingertips probe around the boy’s stretched and abused hole. He can’t help the incredulous chuckle, and hears a faint one echoing from Washington, but it’s not until a finger presses in alongside his cock that Hamilton even seems to notice. “ _Oh_ ,” he gasps, and Jefferson tightens his grip, holds him immobile for his colleague’s exploration. “Sir…”

“Hush,” Washington murmurs, sliding his finger deeper. “All the work to stretch you on Thomas’s hand and already so tight again, Alexander. Remarkable.”

Hamilton’s head thumps back against Jefferson’s shoulder, breaths ragged and shallow. He’s shaking and panting by the time a second thick fingertip joins the first, and Jefferson thrusts gently, experimentally, just to hear the keening cry as those fingers pull at his rim, stretch him unforgivingly.

The boy’s erection is flagging again, pain winning out once more to the pleasure. Washington steals a play from Jefferson’s book and reaches up his free hand to stroke it back to hardness, and then lowers his mouth to take him in even as he pumps his fingers faster, harder alongside Jefferson’s cock, a strange enough sensation but not an unpleasant one as Hamilton’s muscles spasm, as the inner walls tighten around the relentless assault.

When he comes again, it’s in Washington’s mouth with a desperate sob. The muscles of his ass clench around Jefferson’s cock, and he thinks he could chase the feeling, get off quickly, but Washington doesn’t even wait for the boy’s hole to stop twitching before he’s yanking out his fingers and straightening up to press his own cock insistently against Jefferson’s own.

On instinct, Jefferson releases one of the boy’s legs so he can put a hand over his mouth in time to muffle the scream as Washington snaps his hips and sinks the head of his cock into Hamilton’s ass. Washington takes that leg and presses it right back, giving the boy no chance to fight against the larger, stronger bodies he’s pinned between.

He thrusts forward again, sinking only incrementally further, and so Jefferson pulls back on the next thrust, feels Washington’s cock succeed in pushing past his own, deeper into Hamilton’s ass even as Hamilton’s chest heaves with muffled cries and tears slide down his face, over Jefferson’s fingers where they’re pressed tightly into the boy’s cheek.

It’s unwieldly, awkward – that’s not the point. They fuck him like that, a stuttered rhythm as they alternate one pushing in, the other pulling out, the boy’s hole stretched impossibly wide around both of them.

They fuck him like that until the torturous pressure against his prostate forces another spurt of come from his oversensitive cock, too stimulated to go soft after his last orgasm.

They fuck him like that until Hamilton’s cries are reduced to silent tears and a slack expression on his face.

They fuck him like that until Jefferson comes with a grunt, feels the mess of come leaking out between them almost immediately. He pulls out slowly, and Washington doesn’t even bother to move Hamilton from where he’s sprawled across Jefferson’s lap and chest, just hitches his legs up and pounds him fast and hard until he finishes impossibly deep in his stretched ass, gasping and sweating through his dress shirt.

Jefferson isn’t even sure if he’s pulled out when he lifts Hamilton up off of him. Shaking limbs wrap around his shoulders, his hips, ruining his shirt and pants with sweat and come. Washington carries him around the bed and lowers him gently across it sideways up by the headboard, and leans down press gentle lips to his mouth, his jaw, his brow.

“A damp cloth, I think, Thomas.”

He hikes up his pants and heads to oblige; hears Washington murmuring softly over the sound of Hamilton’s quiet weeping. “You were perfect, my boy. So beautiful. So good for me.”

When he returns with the cloth, he expects Washington to tell him to fuck off; that his services are no longer required. But he says nothing, and so Jefferson lowers himself on Hamilton’s other side and strokes sweat-damp hair off his forehead as they soothe him, settle him.

Yes, Washington’s quite outdone himself with this one, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Not ruling out a 5th fic eventually, but I'm going to mark this series as done. The *plan* for fic 5 was formulated probably about a year ago and has yet to demonstrate much willingness to actually move from my brain to the page, so I will make exactly zero promises.  
> (except that, if it does ever come to happen, it will continue the tradition of somehow being progressively worse than all the fucked up shit to come before)
> 
> Thanks for reading my awful, awful corrupt-politicians-being-awful AU. Glad so many of you enjoyed, and I hope it brought some distraction to these odd times we live in.


End file.
